The noise fades. The movement blurs.
His hands come out of his pockets. Not reaching. Just… uncurling. Like maybe he's about to step forward. Like maybe this changes something. Like maybe—
Someone bumps into him from behind, breaking the spell.
His face shutters.
His hands come together in that slow, deliberate clap. Once. Twice. Measured. Respectful.
Not celebration. Acknowledgment.
The difference guts me.
The sound barely reaches me over the noise, but I see it clearly. The way his shoulders lift with each clap. The way his jaw tightens like he's holding something in place.
Our eyes meet.
For one heartbeat, the world narrows again. The cheers fade. The movement blurs. It's just him and me across the space between us.
For a heartbeat, I think he might come over.
Think he might close the distance the way I've been too afraid to all day. Think that maybe this changes something. That this—this win, this proof, this moment—matters enough to pull him back toward me.
Then he drops his hands.
Turns.
And walks away.
Not rushed. Not angry. Just deliberate.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't glance back. Doesn't pause to see if I'll follow.
He threads through the edge of the crowd with the same steady purpose he brings to everything, and I watch him go because I can't do anything else.
Ten feet. Twenty. Fifty.
He reaches his truck.
I'm still standing there, frozen in the middle of the celebration, people laughing and talking all around me while my heart cracks open in a way that has nothing to do with joy.
The engine turns over.
Mae's hand settles on my shoulder. "Go," she says. Firmer this time.
"He just left," I whisper. "During the win. He just—"
"So go after him," Mae interrupts.
Something in me finally gives.
I turn and run for the truck.
Chapter thirty-seven
Hazel
The truck hums beneath me, steady and familiar, like it doesn't know my entire body is vibrating apart.
